


Crying Wolf

by simplyprologue



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Wrestling, F/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 16:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12656820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: The chants have followed her from show to show.Weak!, You’re a coward!, Where’s your sister?Jeering, cruel, and consistent every week since Joffrey closed the ladder on her father’s head in King’s Landing, a halo of blood pooling under Ned Stark’s head in the ring.





	Crying Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Archiving from my tumblr to here on AO3. The tumblr posts has manips of Fearless Sansa and the Hound as wrestlers, and can be found [here](http://ofhouseadama.tumblr.com/post/164545087354). ASOIAF actually kinda transfers to wrestling... pretty cleanly, tbh.

The chants have followed her from show to show.  _Weak!, You’re a coward!, Where’s your sister?_  Jeering, cruel, and consistent every week since Joffrey closed the ladder on her father’s head in King’s Landing, a halo of blood pooling under Ned Stark’s head in the ring. Arya went missing back in King’s Landing, running out from the stadium and into the night. It makes no sense to Sansa, no matter how many times she whispers the truths to herself. Her father, in a coma and half-dead. Robb and Jon, released from their WWE contracts. Her sister, the Arya Brave to her Fearless Sansa, just gone, Cersei and Joffrey physically incapable of exerting a single fuck.

But oh, how the crowd reminds her.

_You sold out! You sold out! You sold out!_

She stood by Joffrey’s side, she did, helped him defend the Intercontinental Championship when she could interfere. She wore his ring, clung to the apron during his matches. Then, the week after King’s Landing, he marched her to the center of the ring and had her watch in front of thousands, her father’s head being crushed between two halves of a steel ladder.

Everyone here hates her.

She hates herself, for being a stupid girl. For ever wanting to come here in the first place. For thinking herself in love with Joffrey “The Heir” Baratheon. For not listening to her father when he wanted to run after Robert’s accident.

But even the crowd doesn’t know what to do with this, murmuring uncomfortably as Joffrey’s guards circle her.

Meryn Trant. Boros Blount. Sandor Clegane.

Perhaps one of them, she might be able to fight and win, with Arya by her side. Sansa doesn’t want her gear torn off her again, like Joffrey ordered a few cities ago. Eyes wide, she looks at the Hound. He’s never hurt her. He saved her, once before.  _Please,_  her eyes beg him. _Please._

The “King’s” Guard steps closer.

Sandor Clegane steps closer still. “Go ahead, Dog!” Joffrey shouts, leaning back against the turnbuckle. “Give her a go!”

He’s a foot from her, maybe less, bending down so their faces almost meet. She’d once been terrified of the burn scars that twisted his cheek and brow, but not anymore. Lips curled into a snarl, he closes his hands around her forearms, oddly gentle. “You’re going to run,” he rasps. “Little bird, you’re going to run. Get to your mother and your brothers. Get the fuck away from here.”

Trembling, Sansa nods up at him.

Satisfied, Sandor turns to face Meryn Trant and Boros Blount, roars, and charges them. The Hound is a fearsome warrior, could easily be the Westeros Wrestling Entertainment Heavyweight Champion if he gave a single fuck about the titles (he doesn’t, never has, except for when he was a child playing with Gregor’s action figures before the  _dreadful accident_ of his own, so many  _accidents_  happen around Lannister folk, Sansa thinks) and though Trant and Blount are of little consequence for him to knock out, he hesitates when it comes to touching Joffrey.

_He slept in his car, for years. Made twenty dollars a night. Went hungry, before Cersei made him Joffrey’s loyal dog._

The past months Sansa’s spent paralyzed in a fog of terror; there is no Fearless Sansa without Arya Brave. But she feels no fear now, only clarity.

She finds herself between Joffrey and Sandor Clegane, and then finds her fist throwing a haymaker. Joffrey crumples to the floor, and the crowd climbs to its feet, the low moans and susurrations of discontent soaring to cheers. Rolling onto his stomach, he crawls towards her, fingers grasping for her calves – to pull her down or pull himself up, Sansa isn’t sure. The clarity brings anger, a simmering rage she’s been tending to for months. Making sure that her nails bite into his skin, she grabs his chin, tucking it between her thighs, jerks his arms up by the elbows behind his back–

“Sansa Stark is – is she – I think she is, Intercontinental Champion Joffrey Baratheon is about to experience the Pedigree!”

_Slam._

“Well, if anyone in this company has one, it’s her.”

The crowd is deafening, or it might be the blood pounding in her ears as she gets back to her feet and flings her arms open wide.

“Yeah?”

 _You deserve this! You deserve this! You deserve this!_  Her, or Joffrey? Or Sandor Clegane, whose hands she feels closing around her wrists, pulling her backwards and away. Still gentle, somehow, callouses sweeping over the sensitive skin on the insides of her forearms.

“You know what people have started to say about Joffrey and old Robert, but – oh my god, it’s Cersei Lannister!”

Sansa realizes Cersei’s theme has been playing for ten or fifteen seconds already, hitting the high, sustained note that sounds remarkably like her signature angry screech. Sansa finds herself flung half behind Sandor as Cersei’s personal guards assemble behind her, awaiting orders to attack, Gregor Clegane chief among them at over seven feet tall.  _Stupid girl_ , she curses herself again. Striding down to the ring in her tight suit and high heels, Cersei jabs a perfectly manicured finger at Sansa and Sandor, already yelling as a microphone is thrust into her hand.

“Looks like the wolf  _pup_ has grown some claws,” she sneers. “Or are you just someone’s bitch?”

A microphone appears in Sansa’s hand from a producer. With a slightest tug she pulls her wrist out of Sandor’s grasp, stepping around him to lean over the ropes, planting one of her feet on the lowest rung. “I belong to no one, _your grace_ , least of all you or your son. From this moment on I am fighting for  _my family._  For my father, for my mother, my brothers, and for Arya. I am Sansa Stark, I am a wolf, and if I am running with a pack of  _ghosts_  then I am still running with my pack.”

Cersei’s mouth folds into a grim line. “Fine then. Have it your way. A ladies’ tournament.”

Sansa finds herself fighting a grin. Sure, she’d  _love_  to fight Cersei Lannister.

“But seeing as I am the CEO of the WWE, and none of my heirs would be ready to assume control should I be… incapacitated, like your poor father, I will be using a champion,” she says, stepping closer. In her six-inch pumps, her face is almost level with Sansa’s. “Gregor Clegane.”

The arena explodes with noise, a cacophony of shouts and boos and cheers and dismay.

“Do you accept my terms, Sansa?” Blood red lips turn into a cruel smile. “You can appoint a champion, if the Hound would fight for you. I’d say maybe Robb, or Jon but – they’re not here, are they? Not that they could fight the Mountain and win, anyway. So Hound, tell me – are you a loyal dog? You owe us  _everything_  that you are.”

Behind them, Joffrey begins to come to, curling his limbs against his torso.

Sandor growls. “You’d do well to remember that the hounds on my shirt were once lion-killing dogs.”

With no forewarning, he takes three long steps backwards, picks Joffrey up over his head, and throws the self-proclaimed Prince of the Ring out of it and into the copse of well-muscled guards standing at attention behind Cersei. The crowd  _loses it’s damn mind_. Cersei drops the mic, falling to her knees to cradle Joffrey’s head in her lap. Fury heightens her features, casting her face in an ugly mask.

“A hound is a wolf that’s been made to forget who it once was, that’s all.” Fearless Sansa says into her microphone, leaning up onto her tiptoes to cup her hand along Sandor’s burned cheek. Then she looks back at the Queen. “I know what that’s like. You have your match, Cersei.”


End file.
